For he, to-day, that sheds his blood with me,
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition :

And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,

Shall think themselves accursed, they were not here;
And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks
That fought with us upon St Crispin's day.

(SCENE-After the Battle. KING HENRY, EXETER, and others. Enter an English Herald.)

K. Hen. Now, herald, are the dead numbered?
Her. Here is the number of the slaughtered French.
K. Hen. What prisoners of good sort are taken, uncle?
Exe. Charles Duke of Orleans, nephew to the king;
John Duke of Bourbon, and Lord Bouciqualt.

Of other lords and barons, knights and squires,
Full fifteen hundred, besides common men.

K. Hen. This note doth tell me of ten thousand French That on the field lie slain. Of princes, in this number, And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead

One hundred twenty-six: added to these,
Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen,
Eight thousand and four hundred; of the which
Five hundred were but yesterday dubbed knights:
So that in these ten thousand they have lost,
There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries.
The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, 'squires,
And gentlemen of blood and quality.

The names of those their nobles that lie dead,-
Charles Delabret, high constable of France;

Jacques of Chatillon, admiral of France;

The master of the crossbows, Lord Rambures;

Great-master of France, the brave Sir Guischard Dauphin;

John Duke of Alençon; Antony Duke of Brabant,
The brother to the Duke of Burgundy ;
And Edward Duke of Barr. Of lusty earls,
Grandpré and Roussi, Falconberg and Foix,
Beaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and Lestrale.
Here was a royal fellowship of death !-
What is the number of our English dead?

(Reads.) Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk,
Sir Richard Ketley, Davy Gam, Esquire;
None else of name; and of all other men,
But five-and-twenty. O God, Thy arm was here;
And not to us, but to Thy arm alone,

Ascribe we all !-When, without strategem,
But in plain shock, and even play of battle,
Was ever known so great and little loss,

On one part and on the other? Take it, God!
For it is only Thine!

BRITISH MEN.

MEN of England! who inherit

Rights that cost your sires their blood,-
Men whose undegenerate spirit

Has been proved on land and flood,

By the foes ye've fought uncounted,
By the glorious deeds ye 've done,
Trophies captured-breaches mounted-
Navies conquered-kingdoms won

Yet remember, England gathers

Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,

If the virtues of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same,

What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail in lands of slavery

Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?

Pageants-Let the world revere us
For our people's rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes

Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory;
Sydney's matchless shade is yours,—
Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a thousand Agincourts!

We're the sons of sires that baffled
Crowned and mitred tyranny:
They defied the field and scaffold,
For their birthrights-so will we!

BATTLE OF WAKEFIELD.

A.D. 1460.

DEATH OF THE YOUNG EARL OF RUTLAND.

(SCENE-In Yorkshire. RUTLAND and his TUTOR. Enter LORD CLIFFORD.)

Rut. Ah, whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands? Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes!

Clif. Chaplain, away! thy priesthood saves thy life. As for the brat of this accursed Duke,

Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company.
Clif. Soldiers, away with him!

Tut. Ah, Clifford ! murder not this innocent child,
Lest thou be hated both of God and man.

Clif. How now? Is he dead already? Or is it fear That makes him close his eyes? I'll open them. Rut. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws; And so he walks, insulting, o'er his prey; And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder. Ah, gentle Clifford kill me with thy sword, And not with such a cruel, threatening look. Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die! I am too mean a subject for thy wrath; Be thou revenged on men, and let me live.

[blood Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's Hath stopped the passage where thy words should enter.

Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again :

He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.

Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine
Were not revenge sufficient for my ire !

No, if I digged up thy forefather's graves,
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
The sight of any of the house of York

Is as a fury to torment my soul.

Therefore

Rut. Oh, let me pray before I take my

To thee I pray, sweet Clifford, pity me!

death!-

Clif. Such pity as my rapier's point affords.

Rut. I never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay me? Clif. Thy father hath.

Rut.

But 'twas ere I was born.

Thou hast one son,-for his sake pity me;
Lest in revenge hereof,—since God is just,-
He be as miserably slain as I.

Ah, let me live in prison all my days;

And when I give occasion of offence,

Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.

[die!

Clif. No cause? Thy father slew my father; therefore,

[Clifford stabs him.

BATTLE OF TOWTON. A.D. 1461.

(SCENE-A distant part of the Battlefield. KING
HENRY VI. alone.)

K. Hen. This battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light.
Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea,
Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea,
Forced to retire by fury of the wind.

Now one the better, then another best;
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered:
So is the equal poise of this fell war.
Here on this molehill will I sit me down,
For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,
Have chid me from the battle, swearing both
They prosper best of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead! if God's good will were so;
For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O God! methinks it were a happy life

To be no better than a homely swain :